


Gross Anatomy

by lasergirl



Series: Power Generation [7]
Category: Jackass
Genre: AU, Gen, Power Generation, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Power Generation-verse, Jackass Edition. Johnny Knoxville is a physical, with unusual physiology and a set of wonderful body-image complexes. Bam Margera is a chamelon.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Gross Anatomy

**Author's Note:**

> Power Generation-verse, Jackass Edition. Johnny Knoxville is a physical, with unusual physiology and a set of wonderful body-image complexes. Bam Margera is a chamelon.

  
Johnny had found a sort of dive bar around the corner from the hotel, where he planned to hide until last call. The big fucking movie started the shoot tomorrow, and he didn't feel like partying, so he was tucked away in a corner with a few boilermakers inside him, watching the local wildlife. With any luck it would end up being an afternoon shoot because the rest of the boys would all be drinking and wouldn't be conscious until after noon.

The giant shopping cart thing was really stupid, but it was definitely going to be a lot safer than getting gored by bulls or run over by cars. It wasn't even his idea. Sure, he had his career going thanks to Jackass, he'd done a few movies and that depraved John Waters thing with the trees having sex. Not bad. He liked being a movie star... most of the time.

He didn't like paparazzi, because they always got the facts wrong and made him seem like a bigger deal than he was most of the time. It was like they didn't have anyone else to go after. He wasn't the only physical on the show - Bam and Wee Man were the obvious ones - and he certainly wasn't the only power in show business. But somehow, they always came after him, because he took paintballs to the groin and came out grinning.

Besides, what were the chances of any reporters daring to follow him into a slum bar with twenty-five Harleys in front of it? He just wanted to drink in peace, with no Jackass stuff, no psycho sluts trying to get his pants off. God, that was a curse and a blessing. Ever since that fucking Powers Clinic photo some asshole sold to the tabloids, there'd been crazy women wanting to see his dick.

(Okay, it wasn't the attention he minded, but it did piss his wife off a lot. And she was more dangerous than the crazy women because he had to go home to her when it was all over. So really, at that point, hanging out in a biker bar and getting shitfaced was a much better idea than going to some club where they actually knew who he was.)

He was just getting a good buzz on from a few whiskies and beer when Bam slunk in and found him in the corner.

"Dude, I was looking all over for you. Pontius was gonna try to screw the coke machine in the hotel and Tremaine wanted you to help rock it over while he filmed it."

Johnny cracked a smile. "That's a dumb stunt. Pontius can screw anything he wants, why's he doing the coke machine?"

Bam shrugged and flopped down in the other chair. "Dunno. He's a sick fuck."

That made Johnny grin for real, his fangs glinting meanly in the subdued light. "We're all sick fucks. Don't go back there. Have a drink."

Bam's dark eyes went wide and flirty, "You buying?" He looked over at the bar where several big, bald guys were elbowing in for draft. "Shit, man. I don't wanna go over there. They'll kill me."

The problem with being Bam Margera, mostly, was that he was a smartass and tended to say the wrong thing to the wrong people. It was almost a guarantee that he'd get his ass kicked sooner or later. But in a place like this, his long hair and pretty face was bound to get him in even more complicated trouble.

"Take the eyeliner off then," Johnny propped one sneakered foot on the seat of Bam's chair and drained back the rest of his stale pint. "You can put it back when we leave."

"Well, fuck, I sorta liked it this way." Bam massaged the delicate skin around his eyes, coaxing the inkstain of pigment away. "Took me hours to get it just right."

"Don't move," Johnny said, leaning in with an extended finger, "Got an eyelash right here-" Bam froze, and with a cackle, Johnny swiped his fingernail across the pale cheekbone.

"Ah fuck you!" Almost immediately, pigment flushed to Bam's skin, a dark stripe like football greasepaint. "That's gonna take like half an hour to go away!"

"Hah haaaahh," Johnny wheezed, "that shit never gets old, man." He sagged back in his chair, laughing.

"Maybe for you," Bam sulked. He tugged his tuque down further over his head and rubbed impatiently at the scratch. The reaction was automatic; like a chamleon, he'd always been able to change the colour of his skin. Too bad for him that it was also touch-sensitive, a fact that the Jackass crew never failed to find hilarious. They wrote things on his forehead if he fell asleep in the van all the time. It made really cool bruises, though, because they went pitch black for hours after a collision or a really good skateboarding fall, and he liked to take his time drawing intricate tattoos on himself.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Johnny always managed to apologize and not sound like he meant it. "Drink's on me."

"Kay, fine." Bam slithered out of his chair and made for the bar. "Shit, man, even though you're the freak, everyone's fucking watching me."

"It's cause you walk so nice," Johnny helped him on the way with a slap on the ass, and Bam skittered off. Johnny scowled at his retreating back.

Freak.

Now there was a word he'd heard enough times in his life, and it never really stopped stinging. It wasn't his fault he'd been born this way. Shouldn't someone call his parents the freaks? After all, they were the ones who kept dragging him around to all those 'specialists' and curious doctors who wanted to see just what was up with that boy from Knoxville.

Or what about all those paparazzi jerks who followed him around, waiting for those poolside slips when the plastic surgery scars might show? And what the hell did it matter anyway? He got fixed, after all. At least, as fixed as surgery could do; there was nothing they could do about his insides anyway. His lungs were bad, and when he got pneumonia and nearly died, the doctors just about shit themselves when they found out he had two hearts. They couldn't explain it: it was just fucked.

Bam had it easy. Not many powers would say their parents were supportive of them, and even though he was an insane bastard, Phil and April didn't haul him around to psychologists and shit trying to straighten out his little twisted mind.

Oh, god, the therapy. Johnny shuddered inside whenever he thought about it. That was just BAD. Dr. Anderson was a fat, middle-aged balding gawker who probably kept pictures of little boys in his desk drawer for emergencies.

"How do you feel today, Johnny?" Always Johnny. It wasn't even his goddamn NAME for starters, it was just because his mother didn't want his full name on the patient forms in case... what? Someone came looking for him to join a circus?

He'd always say the same thing. "Fine," and he'd stare at the floor and imagine terrible things happening to Dr. Anderson.

"I have some crayons here for you," and Dr. Anderson's fat hands would put down the stupid drawing pad for him. "I want you to draw me a little picture, like we did last week. You remember what we did last week?"

Oh, yeah. Every week, for like, A YEAR, he'd go and see that pervert and they'd talk about what a normal boy looked like, and how after the surgery he'd be a normal boy too, and could he draw a picture of himself.

He'd always draw the same picture. It got better over time because he drew it so goddamn much, but at first it was a shaky line drawing of a little boy with messy hair and werewolf fangs (sometimes he'd add a little blood for excitement because that always got the doctor flustered). At first, the boy was wearing sneakers, shorts and a t-shirt, but after coaxing from the Dr. Anderson, he became naked. Johnny drew himself, weird penis and everything, hoping that if he just got it right that time he wouldn't have to do it again. But every time he drew it right, Dr. Anderson would take out that dumb anatomy chart and show him exactly where the surgeons were going to cut him to make him look like everyone else. So then he started adding the bloody fangs, and the huge dog dick that scared his mother, and stopped listening to the things Dr. Anderson said in their sessions. Eventually, his mother gave up with the therapy. Not that things got any better after that....

Bam came back from the bar toting two dribbling pints of foamy beer, a crazed grin on his face. "Shit, man, how did you manage not to get your ass kicked outta here yet?" He perched the glasses on the wobbling table and hooked a thumb back at the regulars. "You see the size of that one guy? I swear he's bigger than Preston and, like, total muscle."

"You didn't make eyes at him, did you? Jesus." Johnny frowned back at the bar. "I kinda just ordered around them, I didn't want to horn in on their bar."

"Well, fuck, now you tell me." Bam gulped at his beer and wiped away the foam moustache on his sleeve. "Maybe we better drink up and get the hell out."

"Nah," Johnny clinked his glass against Bam's and took a long draught. "Bartender's a fan. Don't know about those guys, though. Kinda why I'm hiding out."

"Thought it was because those newspaper guys tried to take telephoto shots of your garbage," Bam snorted, "Christ, man, when you climbed that tree butt-naked I swear I pissed my pants laughing."

"Hey, it was a matter of honour." Johnny shook his head at the memory. They'd been shooting some beach stunts off-the-cuff, and someone had tipped off the local papers that Jackass was in town. Some jerk with a long lens had hidden in a tree, hoping the guys would do something stupid. They didn't have to wait very long. Pontius threatened a striptease, but shoved Johnny into a tide pool instead, and while he was trying to wash the muck out of his jeans, someone caught sight of the cameraman... of course, maybe punching the guy's lights out and throwing the camera in the water had been a bad idea at the time.

"He deserved it," Johnny grinned. His picture ended up on the front page of the International Press anyway, but at least it wasn't a grainy blow-up of his johnson. No. It was just him grinning like a hyena, and his fist about to knock the asshole off his branch. "Feral Jackass" was the headline. It was awesome.

"The only time I got on the front of I Pee Daily was when we were at those Video Awards and Steve-O wrote "cunt" on my forehead," giggled Bam. "That was some shit. You were on crutches, too. Priceless!"

Yeah, that had been a good night, too. A few days before the VMA's, they'd shot some stuff in Seattle at a skate park. Johnny couldn't skateboard. Sure, if he'd tried, eventually he might have been able to roll down a hill on one, but on four feet of vert? It was a hell of a lot funnier watching some gawky asshole falling all over himself than it was to see him stick the landing. So he never learned to skateboard. He just learned to fall really, really well.

"Please tell me you're going to do all the dumb skate stunts this time?" Johnny pleaded, "I hate going into hospitals. I'm good at it, but it sucks."

"Yeah, sure," Bam shook his head. "You're such a fucking pussy. You get tossed around by a rodeo bull, but if you have to get your ankle x-rayed suddenly you're a nervous wreck."

Johnny tuned him out and said vaguely, "Bad karma. Don't wanna talk about it." His attention was drawn to the bar, where the biggest bald-headed guy had turned around on his stool and was staring pointedly in their direction. "Did you say something to that guy, Bam?"

"The fuck?" Bam followed his gaze and saw the same thing, a scowling hulk of muscle and shiny bald scalp, flanked by a couple of slightly-smalled guys in dirty denim. "Uh. No?"

"Maybe he just wants our autograph," Johnny said, hoping he sounded brave. "Wave for the man."

"No fucking way." Bam seemed to shrink as the big guy got off his stool and lumbered over to their corner. "Uhm. Hi, how's it going? Nice place you got here."

The big guy seemed unimpressed. "So Rich tells me you're some kinda Hollywood jerkoffs," he grumbled in a deep, rusty voice.

"Rich?" Johnny grinned his famous nervous grin, teeth predatory and bared. The big guy nodded his head in the direction of the bar. "Oh. The bartender. Yeah. I do a little acting."

The big guy looked at Bam dubiously. "What kinda fags are you, anyway? Is he even old enough to drink?"

Bam rolled his eyes, "Shit, man, I'm twenty-seven."

Johnny said lazily, "We don't want any trouble here, okay? We just wanted a couple of drinks."

"Yeah, well it looks like you've had more than a couple," the big guy cast a glance to the table, where several empty pints clinked against upended shot glasses. "Looks like your time is up."

"Sure, alright," Johnny said, "Me and my friend are going to finish here, tip really well, and then we'll get the hell out of here. That make you happy?"

The big guy was on the verge of wavering and saying 'yes' when Bam had to pitch in his two cents' worth. "All we wanted was a beer. You don't have to be such an uptight sonofabitch."

"What did you say?" One big hand closed over Bam's thin wrist, and he let out a squeak.

"Ow! Fuck! Hey!" He writhed in the iron grip. Heavy black marks were already forming on his pale skin.

"Shut up, Bam." Johnny said through clenched teeth. "You little shithead."

"He's hurting me! What the hell are you trying to do!" Bam punched ineffectually at the big guy's arm but only succeeded in tinting his own knuckles to spots of grey. Johnny slapped a quick palm over his mouth to stop the yelling.

"I'm, uh, terribly sorry about my friend here. He obviously doesn't have any manners. If you'll just, uh, let him go, I'll make sure he gets outside safely." Johnny tried to flash the carmer grin that worked on so many people. The big guy's eyes only narrowed.

"Mpphhmmpphh!" Said Bam, and kicked.

Later, Bam would admit he wasn't actually aiming for the big guy's shins, he was trying to kick Johnny in the nuts to get him to let go, but the second he lashed out, everything went wrong. His foot connected solidly with the big guy's legs, and the grip on his wrist loosened. He twisted away, and as he wriggled between Johnny and the table, the big guy was bellowing and grabbing for them both.

Johnny ducked to run, but a fist caught the back of his belt and yanked. He skidded across the greasy floor, limbs flailing. A meaty hand wrapped around his throat, drawing him up face-to-face with the big guy. He could barely touch the floor, his sneakers dancing on tiptoe.

"Think you're some kind of tough guy, huh?" Spots were flashing in front of Johnny's eyes as the big guy squeezed at his neck. "Coming in here. Causing shit."

"Don't... wanna...." Johnny tried to gasp. The breath choked in his throat. Things were spinning. "Fuck." Bam had gotten the idea, he'd just missed. Johnny shot a sneaker right for the big guy's balls.

Things exploded around him. The crew at the bar surged forward, then the big guy was staggering around and throwing punches. Johnny took one on the shoulder and nearly rocked back onto his ass. Shit, he could throw a punch! His own fists weren't doing much damage. What did they expect a scrawny guy like him to do to the Incredible Hulk?

Someone tripped him up, and Johnny fell heavily to his knees. There was already broken glass amongst the peanut shells. He tried to scrabble to his feet, when a strong arm came around his neck and shoulders. Fuck.

He was losing the battle, against consciousness and against the wall of muscle that had him in a headlock. The big guy's bulging forearm was obscuring his vision. Johnny could just see Bam scrambling to get the hell out of the place - thanks a lot - and he gasped to draw breath.

Somehow, in the whole thing, he got a mouthful of the guy's arm between his teeth and bit down. The grip loosened, a man was screaming. He twisted away, spitting blood and meat into the peanuts, trying to get his back to a wall. He was too slow. Johnny got a quick flash of LOVE tattoed on the guy's knuckles before it connected with his face, and after that....

In his lifetime, Johnny Knoxville had become well-acquainted with all sorts of pain. It had been his constant companion since his sharp little puppy teeth had put gashes in his tongue at seven months old. Since then, from the playground bullying and the prodding specialists, to bloodthirsty surgeons and his own career in self-destruction, he'd experienced more varieties and flavours than most people ever would. It wasn't a complete surprise that the guy managed to knock him out with just one punch. No, he was just surprised that for once, it didn't hurt.

"How do you feel today, Johnny?" Dr. Anderson was at his bedside in the recovery ward with that fucking box of crayons again. He wanted to take those things and shove them up Anderson's nostrils.

"Guh," groaned the fourteen-year-old Johnny. There were needles and tubes sticking out all over him, and it was hard to make his sedated body listen to his brain. "Fine."

"Good boy. Do you know why I'm here today?"

Johnny scowled. "Is it my birthday?" He snarled sarcastically. "You brought me a new diaper? Lucky me."

Dr. Anderson chose to ignore his patient's outburst, and instead presented Johnny with a hand mirror. "You can see it now."

The bandages coming off stung, but not as much as the cool air when it hit the fresh sutures. Every muscle in his body locked rigidly at the searing pain.

"Breathe deep," simpered Dr. Anderson, tilting the mirror in Johnny's shaking fist so he could see the surgeon's handiwork.

As strange and inhuman as he had looked before the surgery, Johnny had been used to the sight. He'd never thought anything was wrong with him, even though he'd been told from as young as he could remember that this would 'fix everything'. But what he saw in the mirror was grotesque, iodine yellow and bruises, ugly, puckered sutures in a line from navel to pubis, and then a... thing, pink and angry and limp, just a piece of meat ringed with stitches. That wasn't him. It couldn't be. Sour bile rose in his throat, and he barely had time to drop the mirror before retching violently over the side of the bed.

At least he had the sense to aim for Dr. Anderson's shoes.

"Johnny?" The world spun around him. There was a hand on his forehead, prying open one eyelid. He was vaguely aware of a gutteral, animal snore escaping from his mouth.

"Uhh." When he moved, a horrible wave of nausea crashed around him and for a minute, he fought with his stomach to keep from throwing up. The urge quelled, he gained control of his face again and got his eyes open.

Bam was kneeling over him, haloed in a yellow flare from a streetlight. "Are you okay?"

"No." His whole face felt strange. Johnny put a hand to his lips and felt blood slick against his fingers. His lip was swollen and there was something sharp in his mouth. "Oh, man." He turned his head to spit, and gobbed a clot of blood containing two teeth onto the pavement. Bam started to giggle again.

"Holy shit, man, he knocked your fucking teeth out!" Bam held up the sharp canine between thumb and forefinger.

"Happens all the time," Johnny said. He managed to get to his knees without hurling and caught a deep breath holding tightly onto Bam's arm. "They grow back." He closed his eyes against the whirl of the street, fighting against the concussion. He could feel his pulse beating in his chest, painfully, badly out of synch. Fuck.

"No shit!" Bam marvelled. "Can I keep this one? I was thinking a necklace or something."

"Bam," Johnny's fingers left more ink trails on Bam's arm, "Listen." The 's' sent a fine mist of blood into the night air. "Hospital. Now."

"Oh, fuck, Johnny, can you walk?" Bam took the weight, snagging Johnny's arm over his shoulders. "Tremaine can drive us. Come one, the van's at the hotel." They wobbled along together for a few steps. "That guy hit you so hard I thought he broke your neck. Is anything broken?"

"My fucking teeth," sprayed Johnny. The whole scenario was starting to seem a little ridiculous. He grinned madly. "Did I hit him? At all?"

"You got one in, yeah." The hotel's sign wavered on the corner of Johnny's spinning vision. "Right after you took a big chunk out of his arm."

"Ohh, right." Johnny wiped at his mouth, sending drool and blood down his chin. "Man, he tasted RANK." His knees wobbled, one sneaker toed into the sidewalk, and down he went onto hands and knees. He laughed wildly, creeping down the sidewalk on all fours like a demented beast. Vaguely, he was aware of Bam splitting for the hotel at top speed. Fucking hilarious.

He stopped to catch his breath, wheezing badly in the shelted of a battered old mailbox. It was getting harder to breathe, curse his weak lungs, and things were going black around him in random splotches. He squinted up at the blaze of streetlight, as it, too, flickered and went black. No, eclipsed by something. Fuck.

Johnny tensed up for the ass-kicking he knew would follow, and as he curled one hand protectively around his groin, there was a flash of pure white light. The shutter cracked like a whip.

"Come on, man, smile for the camera." Snap. Crackle. Pop. The flash was blinding, and Johnny let out a snarl of rage. "That's it, Johnny!"

It was that same asshole from the beach shoot. Hadn't he had enough of that? Johnny dragged himself to his feet, staggering against the mailbox for support. His "what the fuck do you want?" came out in a bubble of bloody spit, incomprehensible. The cameraman stepped daintily back, still shooting.

"You're worth a lot of money, you know that?" He sneered. The lightning strikes of the flash split Johnny's abused brain. "I'm in good with the IP. I bring them freaks. They make me a god."

"You think this is a fucking payday?" Johnny screamed, tearing at the front of his shirt with both hands. "You see my smile?" He stripped the bloodied tshirt off in one clean motion and flung it towards the camera. "Who's the freak, man, you can't leave me the hell alone! I bet you sit at home and jerk off to your own pictures!" His hands were at his belt buckle now, whipping off the leather strap and wrapping it around his fist. He lunged at the photographer clumsily, missed, and stumbled to his knees in the gutter. Still, the camera flashed.

"Just a couple more," the cameraman taunted, stepping over Johnny's twisted legs. "For the freaky Friday edition."

"You want freaks!" Johnny tried to drag himself up again, but fell lopsidedly onto one shoulder. His jeans, already torn and low on his hips, slipped further down. He didn't try to reach for them. Instead, he latched onto the photographer's ankle and hauled. The man came crashing down, still shooting.

"Holy shit, Johnny, back the fuck off!" Tremaine, ever the voice of reason, tore up in the rental van with Bam hanging out the sliding door. "Jesus fuck!"

"Get that freak off me!" The photographer screamed, clawing at the sidewalk. Johnny was completely naked by the time Bam dragged him off, screaming and spitting, towards the van.

"Just another five minutes!" Johnny slurred. Under the streetlights, he looked like a monster. "Got another round. Lemme."

"You're done, man, you're done," Bam had both arms around Johnny's chest, both feet wedged against the van's frame. Johnny strained and slithered in his grasp until finally he fell back, twitching. "Easy, easy."

It wasn't that scene, some kind of twisted Madonna and Child gone wrong, that made the front page of the International Press the next morning. No, it was the terrible five minutes before that, with Johnny all rage and foam, naked and battered and bruised, snarling at the lens.

"They some of your good side, at least," Bam said as he leafed through the tabloid. They were on set waiting for the air guns to get loaded with fake dirt for the shopping cart stunt. "Says the biker might press charges. Wants you to pay for the plastic surgery."

"Asshole," Johnny groaned. He was still pretty hung over from the concussion and a white pressure bandage covered the new bald spot where the emergency room doctors had stitched the gash closed. "I gotta pay for his patch-up job, and the doctors can't even get me right?" He scowled and adjusted the ice pack on his fat lip. The swelling was going down, but the holes where his teeth had come out were still bloody.

"Johnny? Bam?" Tremaine called, "You guys quit your bitching and get your asses over here? We're gonna start the cart run."

"Yeah!" Bam leapt to his feet, then leaned over Johnny with the paper. "Look, this one's got some kind of diagram of your cock, too."

"Give me that!" Johnny snatched the paper away and crumpled it up. He dragged himself out of his chair on rubbery legs. "Don't know what the fuck they think they're doing."

"Yeah," Bam giggled, starting for the set. "It doesn't even look like that."

END.


End file.
